Brand-New

He owns a shop that he only opens when he feels like it.

"Why should I have to please everybody?," he asks, "I'm not obligated to serve everyone who walks in here."

I try to explain to him that as a shop keeper, he must keep his shop, and that includes having to actually open it to customers. It is a beautiful shop, found in the heart of dirty old Cubao. It's full of odd knick-knacks, old cameras, giant letters, cubes of paintings and vintage clocks. "Then I'll call it a museum," he declares, "or a gallery."

I laugh, and I tell him I'll come back tomorrow. He opens the door for me, smiling warmly, and he thanks me for understanding. Then he does something that throws me off-guard: he leans in to kiss me on my cheek, though this is only the first time we've met.

"Come back," he urges, "I'll open for you again."